


Farewell Transmission

by clementine (Clementine)



Category: Motorcity
Genre: Angst, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:55:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clementine/pseuds/clementine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike's conviction had been enough to start the war, but not enough to win it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Farewell Transmission

**Author's Note:**

> Piss-poor sadfic written to cope with my anguish over the series ending. I made my own ending for Mike, I suppose. Originally I wanted it to be a happy ending but I'm a terrible person, so...

Mike was sprawled bonelessly on the gritty pavement, spitting blood and struggling to catch his breath. Acrid smoke and the choking smell of burnt rubber was thick around him; shredded metal groaned in the flames.

It was quiet.

"Chuck?" Mike said, fumbling on the consonants, mouth not working quite right. He rolled over on to his back and coughed as he inhaled sweat and blood and dirt.

Live wires trembled and sparked, severed from their sockets from the impact of the smoking wreck that had once been Mutt.

No sound, no response.

Kane was nowhere to be seen, nor his commandeered car. Mike hoped like hell he'd blown that motherfucker to bits, but it didn't matter, did it? They -- Kane and Mike -- had underestimated each other. Neither of them ever wanted to concede defeat. Both of them proud and stupid. Reckless. That was how he'd ended up here, alone in a junkyard and swallowing his own blood with Mutt nothing more than a mess of parts.

Mike knew Kane was venomous. He knew it firsthand. Hell, he had nightmares about it still. But he believed, right down to the marrow of his broken bones, that he could beat Kane, beat what he represented. That somehow they'd shine a light in the darkness. They'd hold on to what made them human. Mike's master plan had never gotten much more detailed than "we fight for what's right," and that had been enough to gather a motley corps of warriors behind him. A bunch of kids, young and green and restless, hearts beating hard with hope.

A bunch of fucking _kids_. Too young, too green, too restless. Some of them with no heartbeats at all anymore.

Mike had dragged Kane down into the dirty depths of the undercity, wanting to confront the old man on home turf, to finish this bloody battle of attrition -- but even that advantage hadn't been enough. No, none of it was _enough_. It had never been enough.

(Shoulder out of joint. Broken ribs. Definitely some kind of concussion. It didn't hurt that bad. He didn't feel it. He did feel the bite of broken glass tearing up his skin where he lay and he could feel the breathless panic rising in his chest. Or maybe that was blood filling his lungs.)

Mike's conviction had been enough to start the war, but not enough to win it.

"Chuck," Mike tried to call, shout as loudly as he could, but his voice broke halfway through the syllable and the rest was just a hiss of bubbling breath.

He began to chant it like a prayer. He was begging. Maybe delirious.

_Chuck._

_Chuckles..._

_Where'd you go, man? I could use a little help._

He couldn't hear the words as he spoke them because he was making no sound at all.

They had clashed in a junkyard not far out of the Duke's territory. Mike had pulled in, tires shrieking and engine howling, with Kane not far behind him. The wrecked cars were strewn everywhere, most of them now just smoking craters or naked frames, metal torn away and glass blown out. Mike had tried to lead Kane as far away from the heart of Motorcity as possible, but even out here, survivors eked out dismal lives; Mike hoped the explosions had scared them into running away. He couldn't think about what might have happened if they'd stayed.

Chuck had refused to hit the eject button. He'd fixed Mike with a steady-eyed stare and shook his head. Loyalty winning over fear. _You can't get rid of me that easy,_ he'd said. Stupid, cocky. Like something Mike would say.

When they crashed, Mike blacked out. He was thrown from the car. He didn't know what happened to Chuck, but if he tilted his head a little, he could see Mutt, silent and dead, ringed with flames like a halo. Her green paint was charred and already peeling, slowly fluttering to the ground like flakes of dirty snow.

A silent, painful sob twisted in Mike's throat. It was hard to breathe and getting harder, like inhaling water. He tried to pick up his head and look around. He could not.

_I need you to be okay. I need to see you. I need you. I need you._

He could raise one trembling arm, could flex his fingers weakly. His other arm was lifeless, hanging heavy from his shoulder, so he ignored it. He could twitch his toes, but moving his legs made his eyes water and his stomach heave in pain. (Spinal injury? No. Fractured pelvis, more likely. Maybe a broken leg. Maybe both legs.)

So he dragged himself on one arm, blinded by filthy sweat running into his eyes, gasping and whining wordlessly in agony. The ground was littered with tiny shards of glass that gleamed prettily in the firelight and they ate away at his palms so that he left bloody handprints as he pulled himself along.

"Chuck," he cried, and there was power and misery in it, enough that his voice finally took form and the sound echoed harshly, bouncing off the corpses of cars around him. " _Chuck!_ "

Mike wasn't afraid to die. He knew ideas were harder to kill than people, and that was what mattered. But he was afraid to die without knowing what happened to Chuck.

If Chuck was gone, then Mike would go, too.

But he would not go quietly until he knew.

Though the flames were guttering, Mutt was hot under his fingers as he grasped the passenger-side door and heaved his broken body up. Her frame creaked under the pressure, all the strength and beauty gone out of her. Mike pulled at the door as hard as he could, his vision swimming with the effort, and it popped open with an ugly sound. Its hinges had mostly melted but they were still soft, just pliable enough that he could force the door open a few inches.

He was desperate for breath now, pulling great, heaving mouthfuls of air into broken lungs, but he yanked again, beating at the warped metal with his fist until he could wrestle his shoulder against it and lean his head into the interior of the car.

He looked for blond hair, slack jaw, freckles. He waited for a mask of death on a familiar face. Would Chuck even be recognizable? Had he burned to death, ended up as something blackened and twisted like Mutt?

The dash had melted in on itself, its plastic face drooping sadly. The center console was cracked and splintered. The PRNDL was bent backwards at a sharp angle, the skull gone. The seats were gutted, the fabric popping in the heat and spewing its stuffing. The ropes of Chuck's seatbelt fluttered like empty, grasping fingers.

No Chuck.

Mike's grip on the door faltered, his muscles quaking with exertion, and he collapsed. His head hit the back of the door painfully and he grunted, letting his eyes close with a flood of sick relief. He could feel something wet trickling down the back of his neck, but if it was blood, he couldn't tell; it was everywhere, all over him, and his vision was starting to grey out.

Chuck had escaped.

He hadn't hit the eject button -- the seat itself was still there -- meaning he'd climbed out of the car after impact. He was okay. He was alive. Fuck. Chuckles was _alive_.

Maybe he went to go find the others, rally them, and get help. He'd be coming back any minute now with Julie and Dutch and Texas in tow, the lot of them angry at Mike for pulling such a stupid fucking stunt. But Jacob would clean him up and stitch his wounds and Chuck would fuss over his broken bones and Julie would scold him and Texas would high-five him and Dutch would simply roll his eyes and slap Mike on the back and murmur _you did it, man, we all knew you would_.

Mike would be forced into bed rest, probably, and he'd spend interminable days waiting anxiously to get out and finish what he started with Kane. Chuck would keep him trapped there, sprawling his own long giraffe-legs across Mike so that he couldn't move. They'd tell shitty jokes and play videogames together. Yesterday, Chuck had just started teaching Mike how to finish the last boss battle in _Laser Swords 3_ but Mike was terrible at it, he kept dying over and over and then he'd have to start at the beginning of the level again and Chuck was writhing on the floor in frustration at Mike's uselessness. Really, Mike just used it as an excuse to watch Chuck play, watch him hunch over the controller in razor-sharp concentration, his bangs tucked behind his ears.

Yesterday. Not that long ago, even though it felt like years. Centuries.

Mike smiled, or he thought he smiled, and his cheeks were wet with blood, or tears, or both. He was so tired and light-headed and it took all of his strength to keep breathing, dragging breath into his lungs like the air was fighting him. He couldn't wait to see Chuck again, to press him into a relieved hug, to see his bangs tucked behind his ears again and his brow furrowed and his lip between his teeth as he burrowed in Mike's lap, limbs long and body warm, with controller in hand.

He hadn't had enough time to learn that fucking boss battle, but Chuck would show him. Chuck was patient. Mike would do it better next time. Mike would fix his failures. That was all he'd ever wanted.

His heart beat hard with hope, like it always had, until, eventually, it stopped.


End file.
